


And drowning is no sin

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Frottage, Injury Recovery, Love Confessions, M/M, Rimming, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-07-29 13:06:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7685707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Aegnor is wounded in battle, Angrod can no longer hold his feelings in check.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And drowning is no sin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amyfortuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/gifts).



> Also fills my Rimming/licking square in my second Season of Kink card.

Aegnor wakes up to a dimly-lit room, the distinctive smell of healing herbs and his brother's frown. Angrod sits on the bed next to him with his arms crossed over his chest, his expression so uncharacteristically severe, so unfamiliar that Aegnor has trouble recognising him at first. He blinks a few times, but even after the grogginess of sleep has left him and his eyes have adjusted to the half-light, Angrod doesn't stop glowering down at him as he would at an enemy. 

He tries to sit up, but a sharp pain in his right shoulder prevents him from so much as lifting his head. He tries to swallow, but his throat is dry and even drawing in breath hurts. He tries to reach into his brother's mind, and that does work out a bit better. 

Angrod's mind is as turbulent as his gaze. Aegnor very rarely got drunk in his life, but his head spins as if he were while he tries to make sense of his current situation – why is he lying in this room that isn't his own, why is he in so much pain, why does Angrod look so angry. He can't piece any reply together, and all he can do is quietly ask his brother for comfort. 

“You were hit by a poisoned arrow,” Angrod says in one breath. “It cut right through your cuirass, and made you fall off your horse.”

Angrod's voice has the dull neutrality of a herald reciting aloud one of the official reports they regularly dispatch to their uncle, but it gives Aegnor part of his answer. He closes his eyes. The memories come back to him. The attack on the pass of Aglon. Hordes of orcs pouring down from Angband in the early morning, when the sun had not yet risen. He, cut off from his men, surrounded by far too many. He tries to wet his lips again, again unsuccessfully.

Angrod finally moves and stands up. He pours liquid from a carafe into a ceramic glass and holds the glass to Aegnor's lips. The draught is fresh, slightly spiced, and after the first burn against his throat has subsided, Aegnor gulps it down avidly. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, wincing at how brittle his own voice sounds, but he hopes his words can convey his gratitude, not just for the drink.

“I didn't save you,” Angrod replies. His tone is still terse, but a strange tremor nearly breaks his voice. “Maedhros did.”

Aegnor starts, his face scrunching up in dismay. If he could muster the strength to, he would swear. “Then...I wish...I had died instead,” he croaks out, reeling at the mere thought of being alive thanks to the one who had killed his cousins and uncles. The memories of Alqualondë pile up on those of the recent attack, but he is almost immediately startled out of them by the sharp, crystalline sound of the ceramic glass crashing against the wall at his right.

He turns. A patch of wetness darkens the pale stone, and a healer hovers on the threshold of the door next to it, unsure what to do when she finds the brothers staring at each other. 

Angrod's lips are clamped shut, but trembling, his eyes bulging open not only with rage. His chest heaves and his arms shake at his sides, and Aegnor can tell that his brother doesn't hit him out of regard for his condition, but his stance is like a blow, and he can only watch as Angrod shoulders past the confused healer to storm out of the room. 

~

Two weeks later, Aegnor is completely hale again. With the poison bled out of his body, his wound closes up, taking twice as long as normal wounds did, but as completely, barely leaving a scar. It's a reminder that he's still an elf born in the Blessed Realm, though now accursed. 

Angrod doesn't talk to him once during that time, doesn't even visit him, and Aegnor only sees him when Angrod talks to the healers while he believes Aegnor is asleep. 

The day after he leaves the sick-room, he's permitted to eat solid food after days of being fed bits of softened lembas and honey-milk.

The small dining room where he and his brother take their meals whenever they're alone is illuminated by candles just like the sick-room. No-one in Dorthonion would have touched a Fëanorian lamp with a ten-foot pole, and Aegnor is glad for that for more than one reason. When he sits down and stares at his own reflection in the large silver platter in front of him – one of the very few luxury items they keep in their sturdy, unadorned fortress – his face is still pale and haggard, the circles under his eyes sporting an unsavoury blueish tint, but the glow of the candles softens his wan features, more merciful than Arien's glare or all-devouring light of the lamps. 

It also gives him an excuse not too try to peek at his brother's face, afraid as he is that he might find Angrod glaring at him. 

The meal begins in silence, but the hearty flavours of the food, and the simple joy of sharing a meal with his brother make Aegnor feel more comfortable and little by little ease his worry. He starts throwing shy glances at his brother, and finds that he doesn't look in any way angry or upset, so he takes courage, and after the servants have brought in the last course he resolves to speak.

“I'm sorry for what I said the other day,” he says, lifting his head.

Angrod nods and brings a spoonful of honey-cake to his mouth, even though he doesn't seem too thrilled by it. Relief lifts Aegnor's spirits nonetheless, and he resumes eating with an even greater zest, thinking of all the things his brother and he could do together to leave their rift behind. They could take a walk into the hills, or go down to the river. The plum trees should be blooming, and – 

“What would I do if you were to die?”

Angrod's voice is like a stone suddenly rolling down a mountainside. Aegnor lifts his head again, and their gazes meet. Angrod has laid his spoon down and and stares fixedly at him. His face is relaxed, and even the scar next to his right eye seems little more than a faint crease. He could be serene, were it not for his eyes: Angrod has never looked as haunted before. 

“I'm sorry,” is all Aegnor can think to say, guilt and something reaching deeper than guilt churning in the pit of his stomach.

“What would I do?” Angrod repeats, his pitch rising. 

Without thinking, Aegnor pushes his chair back and stands up. His discarded spoon clatters on the plate as he hits the table with his hip in a clumsy attempt to skirt it, but he doesn't take notice of the pain. He walks over to his brother's side, holding his poignant gaze as he goes. 

“I'm sorry, Ango,” he repeats, kneeling down. “I really am. I -...I promise I'll be more careful from now on.”

He takes Angrod's hands in his own and kisses them, then lays his head down on his legs. 

The broken sob that washes down on him hurts Aegnor more than his wound did. 

~

They spar in the back courtyard in the late afternoon, after the servants have finished re-arranging provisions and tools in the storerooms, bare chested and with their hair tied on top of their heads. Aegnor wields a heavy wooden sword with his right arm, to make sure that he has unhindered use of it, but he trains with his left arm too, as a precaution. 

When they're done, they sit on an low sturdy bench and Angrod massages his shoulders with a lotion meant for loosening up muscles concocted by the Dwarves. It's quite expensive, and they can only obtain it through their cousins, but it does a magnificent job, and Angrod insisted that he should have the best possible cures for his wound. Angrod was ever more practical, and more cautious, than Aegnor himself is where matters of life and death are concerned, and Aegnor doesn't want to upset his brother any further, so he lets him do. 

By then he is used to the lotion's smell, pungent but not unpleasant, and after Angrod has massaged him for a while, he slumps back against him, the combined effect of heat and exhaustion plunging him into a welcome drowsiness. 

He barely notices Angrod's hand creep around his waist and from there brush over his navel and crawl up towards his nipples. Angrod's mouth hovers at the side of his neck, lands a fluttery kiss there, and makes its way up, over his jaw and onto his cheek.

Aegnor's dulled senses swim in the mellow gentleness of it. Angrod's touch on his chest tickles him and reminds him of when they were children, of how Angrod would always flutter his fingers all over his sides until he crumbled into fits of laughter, but when Angrod's lips linger for far too long on his cheek and his left hand tries to turn his head in a way which would enable him to reach Aegnor's mouth, the cosiness gives way to alertness and Aegnor jerks up, reacting to an abrupt urge to break free of his brother's hold. Angrod clenches his arm around him before releasing him. It's but a momentary slip, but it bares a completely new reality to Aegnor. 

He stands up, the surprise propelling him far from the bench as much as Angrod's muttered imprecation does. Then he turns around and stares at his brother, his right hand raising to touch the spot where Angrod kissed him. 

That atmosphere is like the fragile calm before a clap of thunder. Aegnor remembers the sound of the glass shattering in the sickroom, and though the only sounds in the courtyard are muffled footsteps from somewhere nearby, he fancies he can hear something similar. Angrod holds his gaze and doesn't flee, doesn't try to pretend nothing happened and doesn't try to shy from the obvious meaning of it.

He slowly stands up and covers the space between them with slow calm strides – five, Aegnor counts.

“I'm...” he begins, but quickly reconsiders his words. “I don't know what's happening to me. I love you, brother, I love you more than I can say.” His brow creases, and there's a desperation in his voice that isn't quite hopelessness, rather a burning need. “When I saw the arrow hit you, when I saw you fall, it was as if the earth opened up beneath my feet. I knew I couldn't reach you and the thought that you would be taken from me nearly killed me too. Now all I want to do is hold you, hug you, keep you close to me at all moments, touch you. It's just...I - I want to rejoice. See you smile, fill your heart with content and make sure your body too feels it, erase all memory of pain and suffering from it and replace it with pleasure and love.” He pauses to catch his breath, and attempts a weak smile. “I need you, brother.”

Aegnor stands stunned. Tears have welled up in his wide-open eyes, and it's like he is back on his sickbed: he can't speak or move, and waits for his brother to do something.

Angrod doesn't make him wait long. He lays his hands on Aegnor's still-hot shoulders and gently places his lips upon his. Aegnor is uncertain at first, but his brother's lips are soft against his own, and their tender fondling coaxes his mouth open. Angrod huffs through his nose and deepens the kiss, their lips warring with each other in devouring and their tongues locking. They're about to go further still – Aegnor is about to wrap his arms around Angrod and Angrod has taken one more step forward to bring their bodies flush together – when footsteps resound on the cobblestones of the arched passage leading into the courtyard and they hastily break apart. Angrod turns, shielding a blushing Aegnor from the servant.

“The bath is ready, my Lords,” the man says, bows and leaves, clearly sensing that he has interrupted something. 

The bath is a trial, with servants hurrying in and out of the room. Aegnor spies his brother's erection when he climbs into the tub next to him, but is forced to ignore it. Supper too isn't any less trying: their officers are all gathered to receive their orders, and they are both careful not to let their gazes meet. 

Their bedchambers are, thankfully, next to each other and connected by an internal door. Aegnor isn't surprised when he hears the door creak open in the middle of the night; he lay awake expecting it. A sliver of moonlight falls on his brother's unbound hair while he crosses the room to his bed. Aegnor holds his breath, but his pulse quickens and it's a thundering in his ribcage when Angrod lifts the covers and slip under them behind him. 

Angrod lies down, flattening his body onto Aegnor's own. His erection presses against Aegnor's buttocks, and Aegnor can feel its heat, its long hardness, even through the coarse cotton of his sleeping pants. 

“Brother,” Angrod groans in his ear, his breath washing down breeze-like on Aegnor's skin, and starts rubbing himself against him, dressed as they are. 

His passion breaks free in that artless rutting. Aegnor stops listening to his own heart and all of him focuses on his brother. Angrod's right arm circles him and his hand rests in the middle of his chest. It seems only natural to Aegnor to lift his own hand and cover his brother's, twining their fingers together. Angrod bucks and rolls his hips against him, as if trying to get closer and closer, as if trying to meld them into one. Aegnor's sleeping pants get pushed inside the cleft of his ass and Angrod's clothed shaft glides up and down along it.

Aegnor imagines it between his asscheeks, between his legs, _inside_ him, thick and pulsing, making him his brother's. A loud moan escapes his lips and it spurs Angrod to clamp his mouth down on his neck and to rub himself even more wantonly, frantically against him, pushing him forward with his weight until he is almost lying prone, almost smothered under his brother. Aegnor tries to move himself, to push his ass back towards Angrod and meet his movements, but he only manages uncoordinated jolts. Even so Angrod hums in appreciation against his neck, making him shiver. The steady motion reminds him of the undulation of the waves enveloping his body whenever he swam in the sea, a sea now made solid and heavy, burning, in his brother's form. 

At last, Angrod gives a broken wail, stiffens and comes. The creaking of the bed dies down with his voice, and is replaced by his laboured breathing. His shaft keeps throbbing against Aegnor's back. 

Aegnor himself is achingly hard without having been touched once, a fact that Angrod notes with a flash of joy in his eyes when he pulls Aegnor on his back. Their gazes meet in the darkness of the room, and the light of the Trees lingering in them is only a tiny fragment of their radiance. Aegnor lifts his arms to grasp handfuls of his brother's soft curls, and pulls him down into a kiss that is the proper continuation of the one left incomplete in the afternoon.

When they part, Angrod slides back and rips his pants off of him. His cock springs free, and any embarrassment Aegnor might have felt is drowned in the look of adoration, stark and unabashed, which Angrod gives him. Angrod takes hold of his thighs and splays his legs wide open. A thrill seizes Aegnor as he watches his brother crouch down between them and double over, until his mouth hovers over his crotch. 

“You are so beautiful, my sweet brother,” Angrod murmurs and licks the head of Aegnor's cock once, then he reverently presses the shaft flat against his belly and licks the underside of it, in a placid descent down to Aegnor's balls. 

Aegnor lifts himself on his elbows to look down at his brother's head moving between his legs. 

“I will take you, tomorrow,” Angrod goes on and licks his balls, too. 

“Yes,” Aegnor gasps, “yes.”

Angrod pushes Aegnor's ass further up and back, and drags his tongue over his hole in one long swipe. The puckered skin contracts and flutters. The sensation is just ticklish at first, and vaguely pleasant, but after Angrod has lapped up and down a few times it becomes overwhelming. Aegnor collapses back onto the bed, his thighs tense and he unconsciously hooks his hands behind his knees to splay himself even wider. Angrod takes proper advantage of that, returning one hand to Aegnor's cock while he keeps lapping hungrily at his opening, up and down. Every time Angrod's tongue flips over just above his rim, and its underside, wetter and softer, drags over his hole, Aegnor lets out a whimper and bucks up into his brother's face.

“I will drive my cock inside you, bury myself deep inside you,” Angrod groans and pokes the opening with the tip of his tongue. Aegnor clenches his ass with a hissed 'yes', and relaxes, as if he were to take his brother's cock then and there, but it's Angrod's tongue which suddenly pushes inside him.

Aegnor's eyes widen then fall shut again. Angrod probes him as deep as he can possibly go, licks his walls, laves his opening outside and inside. Aegnor's chest rises and falls erratically, he feels like his whole body is swaying, drowning, and Angrod only has to brush his hand over his cock to plunge him down into that abyss of sensation.

He comes all over his own chest, and Angrod eats his seed with the same hunger with which he milked it out of him. 

“How long have you been wishing to do this?” 

Angrod's eyes dart up to his face, but he finishes lapping up the last few drop of his come, next to his collarbone, before replying. “I don't know. Perhaps I always have.”

Aegnor snickers.

“Does it displease you?”

“Don't be silly.”

Angrod smiles and lays his head down onto his chest. Aegnor sinks his hands into his hair again, and Angrod's breathing evens out right against his heart. _'Perhaps I always have'_ isn't really an evasive answer on his brother's part, he reflects. Even after what they've done, it doesn't feel like much changed between them. They were always close. They're just a little closer now, and happier for it. 

Aegnor swears to himself that he will do all it takes to make it last for as long as he can.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the song Every Breaking Wave by U2.


End file.
